


in these cold days

by frederickdesvoeux (doomdxys)



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21890443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomdxys/pseuds/frederickdesvoeux
Summary: Prompt fills for the Janky Franky's Frosty Fun Time event!chapter one: sweater weather (des voeux/collins).Des Voeux is into Collins, possibly more so into his sweater.chapter two: fernfrost (fitzjames/gore). 1844.Winter stayed late, dipped out and dipped back in, coming with beautiful surprises.
Relationships: Charles Frederick des Voeux/Henry Collins, Commander James Fitzjames/Lt Graham Gore
Comments: 4
Kudos: 21
Collections: janky franky's frosty fun time 2k19





	1. sweater weather (des voeux/collins)

**Author's Note:**

> — Des Voeux has a brother named Charles Champagne, and went by Frederick on multiple occasions, hence him being called Frederick in the fic.  
> — Collins had a brother named Henry (no middle name), hence the mentions of Foster.  
> — Osmer is there as a nod to Goodsir’s letters that mention the purser being very interested in his efforts.

The voyage towards their initial destination goes smoothly, too smoothly almost, and Frederick finds himself hanging around doing nothing a lot of the time. Mostly he decides to spend his somewhat free time on deck, hanging around the back of the ship.

It tends to provide him with half of an excuse, helping Goodsir with whatever creatures he was trying to dredge up from the ocean, and some entertainment as he watches Osmer fail to catch a fish, laughing at some comment about “slippery idiots”. It also allows him to let his eyes wander across deck without much question, entire conversations slipping past him as he scans for an increasingly familiar face.

That he shouldn’t be doing this is something that definitely sticks in his mind as his teeth sink into lower lip when the object of his affection wanders onto deck at the watch change. The weather had been mild over the last few days, more and more people appearing with only parts of their uniform on. Collins is not an exception, Frederick realizes, the man coming on deck having abandoned his coat for what Frederick can only describe as the most comfortable sweater he’s seen in a while.

Collins practically buries himself in it—collar pulled up high over his chops, the sleeves falling across his gloves. He seems busy, wandering from seaman to seaman to make sure that things have been running smoothly in absence. His hair, messy as always, sways in the calm wind and Frederick can’t help but wonder how soft it feels—how it’d feel to tangle one hand into it as the other wandered.

“Mister Des Voeux?”

His daydreaming about Collins’ hair gets crudely interrupted, Harry’s question first and Osmer’s laugh second. The purser shakes his head, dropping the fish he was holding back in the water, something mischievous and knowledgeable hidden in his eyes.

Frederick swallows hard, avoiding the man’s gaze, unwilling to give more away. “Sorry, mister Goodsir, the weather has been distractingly good.”

He tries to focus on the crabs that float around in the bucket in front of them—some of them with tiny coral hats that do amuse him—maybe he just wants to show them to Collins. It’s far too easy to let his mind wander again. Especially as Collins laughs halfway down deck, amused at something Frederick can’t see and he turns around almost instantly, neck straining painfully as he whips his head around.

Collins is talking to William Orren, an able seaman Frederick knows remarkably little about, but who seems to have a good enough sense of humour to make Collins laugh. He can’t help but feel jealous—feel like he should be making some terrible sea-related joke that makes Collins’ eyes crinkle as he laughs quietly.

“You know you’re going to regret that,” Osmer pipes up, pulling Frederick back to the present. His eyebrows are raised pointedly at the way Frederick can’t help but chew on his bottom lip whenever he’s distracted. “The cold will already wreak havoc on them, don’t help it.”

Frederick merely licks his lips in response, eyes still on Collins, who moved from Orren to a seaman Frederick hasn’t seen enough to recognise. The sweater sleeves are turned up now, strong lower arms visible as Collins helps the man with something involving a rope. Frederick sighs loudly before he can stop himself.

Osmer’s eyebrows nearly vanish under his cap at that, the purser now turning around to see what Frederick is observing. The cough to mask his sigh comes far too late and Frederick can already feel the blush of embarrassment creep up his cheeks.

“Maybe you should talk to him.”

Frederick scoffs—maybe he definitely shouldn’t. And so, Frederick definitely doesn’t, not in the way Osmer was implying anyway. Instead he tentatively reaches out to Collins during the shifts and meals they share, asking about nonsense and his plans for the future. It works, sort of, Collins more than willing to swap stories, even if he seems a little worried about Frederick’s war experience.

When Collins eventually confides in him that everyone calls him Foster, not Henry, due to a brother with the same name, Frederick knows he’s truly—entirely—hopelessly lost. “It’s Foster,” Collins whispers, more into his drink than to Frederick and the latter has to lean in to understand, “I have a brother, hal, and well—middle name for me.”

His jaw goes slack in a mix of confusion and surprise. He’s aware he’s staring, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, his tongue stuck somewhere as he looks for words. “I’m—” His mouth snaps shut again with a loud noise.

“Foster—” He lets it roll off his tongue carefully, his mind stuck already on how it would feel in other moments—whispered against skin, into soft hair.

Collins’ eyes wrinkle along with his laugh, clearly amused at Frederick’s reaction. They stay wrinkled, attentive, as Frederick tries to keep himself together, talking about his own brother and how he entirely gave up on ever being called Charles.

They feel closer after that, or so Frederick likes to think as they start to refer to each other by their first names. The french r is missing entirely from Collins’ vocabulary, something Frederick tries to fix one evening that ends up with the both of them laughing far louder than he should, Frederick almost choking on his tongue at one point when he rolls it too long.

“Are you okay?” Collins asks, worry managing to struggle through the laughter hiccups. His hand is warm on Frederick’s back and no—god, no, he’s not okay. A weak thumbs up thankfully suffices.

“I’ll be fine.” He coughs a last time, sipping his drink to settle the pain in his throat. “Shouldn’t attempt that anymore.”

They fall into comfortable silence, Collins’ hand retreating to its owner and Frederick instantly misses it, staring in his drink to avoid looking at Collins. There’s been far too much thoughts about how Collins would feel to hug, jumper on, or off. How it’d feel to be held close by them—run his fingers through Collins hair and kiss the side of his mouth until they drift into sleep.

There’s been infatuations before, midshipmen kissed in the darker parts of ships, higher officers taken from parties with a wink. It’s different with Collins. He doesn’t want to drag him to a storage room where they won’t be seen, something quick with a sarcastic comment, a smirk and then he’s gone again. He wants—needs to see Collins, premature wrinkles around his sad eyes and messy hair disappearing into a messy beard; to lie in bed in bed together and talk of the unseen future.

“Frederick?” _Foster._ “What are you thinking about?”

“The future.” Not a lie. “The person I’d like to spend it with.” He flashes an awkward smile, more at the table than at Collins.

“Is she nice?” _Oh._ There’s a genuine curiosity in Collins’ voice, mixed with what Frederick thinks he’s misreading as sadness.

“Yes—” He sighs,“—very much so. And funny and kind; and sometimes, sad-looking—” He glances at Collins’ from the corner of his eye, “—all whilst wearing the softest jumpers ever.”

He tentatively reaches for Collins’ hand, waiting for a reply that seems to take forever, but as his fingertips brush past Collins’, he knows there is no misunderstanding between them.

“And what do you think the future holds?” Collins asks, voice quiet, that last bit of uncertainty taking over. He rolls his hand over for Frederick to entangle their fingers.

“Glory and promotions—” He can’t help but grin, “—big rooms with big beds and soft blankets and an even softer man to kiss in it.” He looks at Collins’ then, heart suddenly somewhere halfway up his throat as he finally throws out the correction in gender, his fingers tightening around Collins’.

“That sounds very nice.” Collins’ lifts their hands, bowing his head to press a soft kiss to the back of Frederick’s hand, his chops scratching slightly. “What’s in it for him? Beside your sarcastic jokes and occasional French accent?”

Frederick pretends to think, face twisted in mock-focus, closing the distance between them to lean his head on Collins’ shoulder. “All the jumpers in the world,” he decides on, Collins’ laugh vibrating through him.

“That’s a very tempting offer, I don’t think he’ll be able resist.”

“I do hope he takes it.”


	2. fernfrost (fitzjames/gore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1844\. Winter stayed late, dipped out and dipped back in, coming with beautiful surprises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the fernfrost prompt. Idk how fernfrost works... this was meant to be longer but it never went where I wanted it to go.

Winter stayed late that year—dipped and came back, an unwanted relative that lingered just too long at the end of every party. It settled into the walls of every room, crept into their bones the second they went outside and refused to leave again for several days.

They stay in because of it, endless letters written to politely decline dinner parties and forgo previously decided tea visits; all forgotten for long evenings and long mornings in bed. It’s better this way—feels better, lazy kisses and lazier fingers, James’ nose nestled in the nape of Graham’s neck, his lips soft as he kisses his way down Graham’s shoulder in the earliest hours of the morning.

Graham always wakes first, legs tangled in James’, an arm across his eyes in a desperate attempt to keep out the moonlight that creeps between the gaps of the curtains. It’s no different in late march, when the winter reappears unexpectedly, Graham waking up to a far colder room than he expected. The sun still down, he blames it on the earliness of the hour, surely no one awake yet in the entire house.

James is equally fast asleep, his breath hot against Graham’s skin. He mumbles something incoherent as Graham wrestles himself from the mess of limbs and blankets, arm swatting at Graham’s moving shape to try and keep him close. “Grehm—”

His butchered name turns into annoyed groan as Graham peels away some of the curtain to get a better look at the window. Another groan—James rolling onto his stomach in complaint.

He runs his fingers across snowflake-like drawings, illuminated by the bright moonlight. It’s been years—decades since the last time he remembers fern frost appearing on a house’s windows. It scatters across the bottom like a spider’s web; leaves and flakes and shapes he can’t even find the proper words for, crawling up and up until they trail off.

“James—” he sounds out of breath. His hand scuttles backwards on the mattress, looking for the half-asleep heap of man grumbling behind him.

James grabs his fingers, thumb absentmindedly stroking over the back of Graham’s hand. “Yes.” Only vaguely annoyed. He’s a pretty sight, as Graham turns his head to look at him, hair sprawled over his face and the pillow, heavy-lidded eyes squinting at Graham’s shadowed face.

“Come up here,” Graham whispers. His eyes wrinkle as he smiles, James far from a man who wants to leave his comfortable cocoon of blankets. James mutters something about ‘a minute’ and shuffles closer to Graham, who turns back to the window.

“Don’t you think it’s beautiful?” he mutters, more to himself than to James, when the latter manages to sit up, his body warm against Graham as he brings the blankets up with him. Graham grabs the corner tossed across his shoulder and pulls it closer.

James hums, agreeably. “Like you—” the last word trails off into a series of soft kisses pressed against the back of Graham’s neck.

Graham can’t help but sigh. “You’re impossible, James.”

Another hum, another kiss, near his shoulder blade, James travelling down, lips and fingers. Graham’s fingers slip down the window, a trail left from where they used to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me at [transgrahamgore](http://transgrahamgore.tumblr.com).


End file.
